


a little soul-baring never hurt anyone

by Ive got bread in my pants (marin27)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, But it's not Geraskier and there's no sex, Established Friendship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Mentioned Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Post-Canon, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, They're best friends first and soulmates second, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Valdo Marx is a dick, not established relationship yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23756491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marin27/pseuds/Ive%20got%20bread%20in%20my%20pants
Summary: Jaskier has known his soulmate for over twenty-two years, yet he's never felt the man's lips against his.—OR—Jaskier and Geralt go to a banquet, and Jaskier meets his rival-slash-ex-lover there. Emotions get involved; a golden-eyed Witcher gets jealous and Jaskier is confused as to why.Their relationship is also based more on their friendship than the fact Destiny tied their souls together. (Basically, they're friends first and soulmates second.) It gets pretty heavy-handed with the pining and purple prose.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 79
Kudos: 629





	1. calls of guilty thrown at me

**Author's Note:**

> SO! This is my first long, multichaptered fic of Geraskier. I hope you enjoy!  
> It's a sprinkle of soulmate au, jealous geralt, pining jaskier and basically just unresolved tension over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter name is from 'Cherry Wine' by Hozier. The lines remind me of what... Eh, if o explained more it'd be a spoiler.
> 
> Valdo is in this chapter! And I imagine him to be Robert Sheehan to be honest. He's what I envisioned Valdo Marx to look like when writing this. Of course, you can imagine anyone else but he's just who I wanted Valdo to be.
> 
> In this time line, we could say this is a solid few years since their break-up on the dragon hunt, and it's been a year since they reconciled. (They don't count the years they were apart in the years theyve been friends) 
> 
> Anyway, here's the first chapter! Enjoy!

> _The way s(he) tells me I'm (his) and s(he) is mine_
> 
> _Open hand or closed fist would be fine_
> 
> _The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine_

If Jaskier wanted to count the number of times Geralt has saved his life, the number wouldn’t be accurate because twenty-two years of friendship means the many, many, many times Geralt has saved the hair on the top of his head. Jaskier is thinking this night is only another tally to Geralt’s score.

The bard was invited to perform for a ball at this duchy. It all started from a simple contract, really. Geralt was tasked by an ealdorman to take out the two—not one but _two—_ drowned dead nests skirting the edge of the village, near the swamp. Obviously, when word got out that Geralt of Rivia was in town, the duke—a fan of Jaskier’s work—just had to invite the bard to entertain the village, a celebration of sorts after Geralt’s completed contract.

Jaskier could not refuse a man of such power, especially when he’s getting coin. Besides, it has been a while since he’s performed in front of a regal crowd.

Geralt wasn’t fond of the plan.

“Please, Geralt, just one night of drinking and my wonderful music and then we’ll be on our merry way to be covered in selkie guts in the next town,” Jaskier had pleaded. The man had glowered for a good few minutes before grumbling, “Just as long I’m not wearing anything colorful. Or any doublets.”

“Ah, well, that isn’t quite up to me. You see, the duke’s sister expects everyone to be in their finest wear for the evening and we can’t have you walking in wearing your… _very_ fashionable blood-splattered armor. She already sent your clothes that I requested to the inn.” Jaskier worried that it was the deal-breaker for the man, but to his surprise, other than an exasperated glare and a heavy sigh, the Witcher could not say no to the bard. After all, they are soulmates.

——

When they met in Posada, and Jaskier broke the silence with the most charming sentence a man can say: _I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,_ Geralt had barely flinched and, without missing a beat, told the bard he was drinking alone.

Obviously, a Witcher of Geralt’s caliber was taught not to react to strong, unbidden emotions. But Jaskier, on the other hand, wasn’t taught to suppress what he felt on a day-to-day basis, so it was only fair when the bard had almost lurched forward in shock, the gentle burn of his words—written in bold just above his left hipbone—sending a full-body tingle from his head to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Jaskier still vividly remembers the small smirk on Geralt’s lips after he saw the entirety of his reaction—when the bard’s world was turned on its head in a second.

Despite their shared soul-marks, Geralt never made the whole ordeal as romantic as ballads had painted it out to be. In fact, Geralt never made any sort of move at all. At the end of their adventure at the Edge of the World, Jaskier concluded that the Witcher just wasn’t attracted to him that way.

Sure, they have their chemistry; the easy back and forth between them; that familiar spark of a soul-bond, that pull of fate bringing them together when one needs it; and when Jaskier turns up the annoying theatrics, the Witcher never once pushes or sends him away.

_(Other than that one time on the mountain—)_

But even after years of knowing each other—possibly closer than anyone Jaskier knows—Geralt never once made a move. Jaskier has heard of soulmates who don’t fall in love; those who choose not to or just have unforeseen circumstances standing in their way. Jaskier doesn’t take it personally (—okay, maybe he did, a long time ago, but only for a while. The bitter anger was fleeting.) and he’s come to treasure what he has with the Witcher, no matter how far apart they are on the Continent.

Being with Geralt is like a warm scented bath after hours of walking, like a sip of cold apple juice in the sun, like a string of pretty words coming together perfectly in a new ballad. Being with Geralt is like coming home.

And it’s no doubt why Geralt humors the bard on his many, many ridiculous whims. The Witcher feels the same when Jaskier is around. It’s inevitable when one is your soulmate.

But sometimes, during the lonely nights away from his dear Witcher, Jaskier wonders if what he feels is a result of falling in love rather than the soul-bond binding them together.

It’s a thought he tries not to visit often.

——

“This, this, _damn_ thing won’t fit properly,” Geralt curses, the frantic movement of his shadow behind the room divider giving a rather amusing view of Geralt getting trapped in the confines of his new outfit. Jaskier hardly tries to stifle his laugh, coming up to knock on the divider.

“There’s no shame in asking for help, you know.”

“Yes. There is,” Geralt grits out. This time, Jaskier’s lips split into a grin, a laugh bubbling in his throat. “Just say the word, Witcher, and I shall valiantly save your life from those cursed clothes.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” he grumbles and Jaskier only hums. The bard walks back to the bed, ungracefully plopping down on the mattress. He grabs onto his lute resting at the foot, and plucks a few strings, making sure they are finely tuned for his performance.

“Geralt?” The Witcher hums.

“Do you think that the duke’s sister is unwed?” There’s a soft grunt and the stomp of a boot as Geralt yanks on his shoes.

“Even if she is, it’s not like that’s going to stop you,” Geralt says matter-of-factly.

Jaskier grins. “You know me so well.” His thumb smacks on the top string, a shallow twang sounding in the room.

“Try not to get killed tonight, Jaskier. I don’t want to spend my evening chasing away jealous lovers,” Geralt rumbles, his voice still as gruff even when behind a room divider. Jaskier wonders what’s the point of the wooden wall. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the Witcher naked. He has, in fact, many times. (Maybe it’s just a flimsy reason to ogle the poor man, but he digresses.)

Jaskier makes a face when he realizes what his friend just said. “I won't, what was it you said?, ‘hide my sausage in the wrong royal pantry’.”

Geralt chuckles, a low sound that makes the air in Jaskier’s lungs disappear. The bard rolls his eyes and mutters, “Of course you’d laugh at your own joke.”

His fingers find a soft rhythm to drum on the surface of his lute. “I’m not quite feeling up to a lustful rendezvous tonight. Even a bard of my skill would be quite tired after performing for a court like this one.”

Geralt peeks around the divider, looking at the bard with a cocked brow. “I’ve seen you play for a kingdom court twice this size. Two nights in a row.”

Jaskier opens then closes his mouth, glancing away.

“That’s a very good point, Geralt.” The Witcher snorts and goes back to his buttoning his doublet.

Jaskier shrugs despite not being in his view. “Maybe I’m just getting old, my dear Witcher.”

Geralt snorts once again. It’s a special case, their soul-bond. Jaskier is supposedly forty-one and yet he still looks as young as the day he met Geralt. It’s almost as if upon meeting the Witcher, his aging process stopped. A decade ago, he would have claimed it was up to his skincare, but over thirteen years has passed and it’s like he hasn’t aged a day.

Geralt had pointed it out a few years ago when Jaskier passed him a bottle of wine—a gift for his thirtieth-sixth from his colleagues at Oxenfurt. It was a startling realization for the both of them. Witcher and human bonds are rarely heard of, but there are bonds between other magical beings and humans that are documented; it was said that the human, Jaskier in this case, is found to be aging slower because of residual magic binding two souls together.

 _Bollocks,_ he had said. But time passed and he _still_ hasn’t aged.

 _Quite convenient,_ Jaskier had joked once, _guess you’ll have to endure me being by your side for many years to come._

Geralt didn’t say anything, only hummed and stared into the fire thoughtfully.

A heavy, tired sigh reaches Jaskier’s ears and he can’t help but smile.

“Come on out, Geralt. You can’t avoid the social interaction forever.”

“I’ll try my darned best to,” Geralt growls as he steps out from behind the divider.

The first thought that crosses his mind is that Geralt is… _ridiculously uncomfortable._

The second, well…

Jaskier is glad he has his lute over his lap.

Those sleeves really do a terrible job at keeping Geralt’s arms in, the fabric stretching to accommodate his lines of muscle. For another, his chest is so wide Jaskier has the unshakeable want for the man to press his weight onto him. And Gods, those trousers, those _legs_

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls out. The bard blinks and—

Geralt is smiling, a small grin curving his lips.

Jaskier clears his throat and jumps to his feet. “Well, chop, chop. We can’t be late; we would be awful special guests, won’t we?”

He ignores the way his cheeks heat up, hoping he turned around fast enough to hide it from the Witcher. Knowing Geralt though, he could probably even _feel_ the damn temperature change.

——

The court is raucous by the time they both grace the halls, with men already drunk off the rails and women fawning over the warriors busy with arm-wrestles. When Geralt sends him the side-eye, Jaskier can only grin and shrug.

“Let’s just hope they have enough ale for you to get through this night,” Jaskier says, slapping the Witcher’s shoulder with sympathy. Geralt grumbles, “I was thinking the same thing.”

 _“Dandelion!”_ a manly voice booms from across the room. Immediately, cheers from all over the room erupt, and Jaskier can’t help bowing to his already wonderful audience.

He looks over his shoulder to Geralt, his eyes twinkling under the chandeliers. “And I didn’t even have to play a song.”

The man only snorts, rolling his eyes. They walk up to the ducal table and surprisingly, every member wears only welcoming smiles for the both of them. A small weight is lifted off Jaskier, glad that his songs have travelled this far to spare Geralt a little bit of the prejudicial stress of being a monster hunter.

The duke claps for them, getting to his feet, “Welcome! It’s a pleasure to see you two here. This morning, I had that the invitation did not get to you. Fortunately, it seems you two are not eager to leave the duchy yet. I am pleased.”

His Grace is regal man, his ornately stitched doublet and crown telling everyone that he’s no doubt a man of royalty. “We’d like to thank you, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, for ridding us of all those foul beasts—those pests. They’ve really been a pain in my arse—”

“Jarvis!” a well-dressed woman in green and golden robes by his side slaps his arm, but the duke only laughs. He leans down to press a kiss upon her temple. “I apologize, my lady. I did not mean to utter such profane things to our guests.”

“You better not,” the woman warns, but the loving warm grin on her face takes away the bite. Jaskier and the Witcher share a look. _Soulmates._

Geralt bows his head respectfully, “I take no offense, Duchess. Besides, it’s all in a day’s work.”

She waves a hand. “Nonsense. You were invited as a guest and will be treated as such. It’s no matter if you wield two swords.”

Jaskier can’t help but pipe up, “Do I have to be a Witcher to be introduced to such a lovely lady?”

She faces Jaskier and the warmth and kindness emitting from her face grows tenfold. “Ah! Dandelion. You may refer to me as Duchess Emylya. My duke and I are nothing but big admirers of your work, especially of the tales with your—” she glances over with a smile to the silver-haired man by his side, “—Witcher.”

He chuckles. _He’s not mine._

“I’m honored, Your Grace. It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, bard. If you wish, you may start your performance,” the duchess says, and the duke nods, clearly as excited as she is.

“We are all rather eager to hear your tales straight from the source. Quite tired of listening to your stories from minstrels who’ve not faintest idea of what they’re singing about.”

Jaskier laughs. In the corner of his eye, he can see Geralt resigning himself to his fate. A night of _mingling._

“Well, I would like to make good on my promise and let me grace your ears with _my_ performance,” Jaskier merely says before heading to the group of minstrels prepping their instruments, sliding a comforting hand on Geralt’s back as he passes by. He overhears the duke inviting the Witcher to sit at their table and he has to muffle his snort of laughter. Only _Geralt_ can be invited to sit at the ducal table.

He takes his time to tune his lute, even though it’s been done several times before the party even began. He then slides the strap over his shoulders and plucks an experimental first note. The crowd quietens.

He grins wolfishly, pleased by the warm reception. He strums a chord, and another and soon, the whole room bursts with life. He steps into the middle of the court, commanding attention with his ever imposing presence.

“Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger…”

It is a classic, a song that even dates back before Ciri’s birth. He still remembers the Cintran court like it was yesterday.

His body thrums with vibrant energy, like sunlight bursting from his chest, glowing at the seams. It has been a while since he’s let himself go like this, singing his heart out as if he’s still young and free—like a bird in the sky. He feels limitless, like he can sing and pluck a tune forever and ever, the moment unending as he brings joy and elation to everyone around him.

Golden honey brings him down to earth, grounds him in dirt and cooling soot; he meets the Witcher’s eyes from across the rowdy hall and can hardly tamp the urge to flash a wink. Geralt only smirks and gives a fond roll of his eyes back. The familiar interaction is a soothing wave, washing over him with warmth that Jaskier knows so well, pulling him down under the sea. He never wants to leave the water.

* * *

After a whole hour of prancing around, music flowing through the air, Jaskier finds himself parched, a little worn out from the constant movement.

He tells the group of minstrels to take a break, considering they are probably faring worse than he is, and drifts over to the table of juices and alcohol provided. He pours himself a tankard of ale, gulping it down excessively to stave off the thirst.

He wonders if Geralt is enjoying himself, especially when it seems like the duchess has roped him into a deep conversation.

A hand rests atop the table right next to him, and he turns to face the person. Green eyes, dark hair and a handsome face.

Jaskier stops breathing.

_Valdo fucking Marx._

His hackles raise, back going straight as a rod as he leans back to glare into those beady green eyes. He resists the urge to spill the biting remark already on his tongue.

“Jaskier,” he purrs, that annoying _glint_ already in his eye, like he knows every little thought that crosses Jaskier’s mind. Before, it used to thrill Jaskier—the _danger,_ the risk of having someone so sly and cunning between his sheets. Now, though, it fills him with unbridled bitter anger, Valdo’s stare unleashing an uneasy crawling feeling under his skin—like little bugs festering.

“Valdo,” he says stiffly, taking a step back, but the man only chuckles and closes the space.

“My dear, I must say, your voice is still as beautiful as the day I—”

“Left me with my heart torn to pieces like the snake you are?” Jaskier bites out.

He supposes he wasn’t able to resist the urge for too long.

Valdo laughs, a grating sound that used to charm Jaskier silly. Sometimes, Jaskier just absolutely hates his heart for falling in love so easily; it can never quite differentiate the bad from the good.

“Jask—”

“Call me Dandelion,” he states, no room for argument, narrowing his eyes. He wishes he has the fear-instilling glare Geralt is well-known for.

Valdo grins, his white teeth flashing in the golden candlelight. “My, my, my, you’ve grown feisty, haven’t you?”

“Not feisty. I just demand the respect you never gave me then.” His tone is sharp, cold and not quite forgiving. He’d rather die from one of Geralt’s Witcher potions than let the man treat him the same way again.

Valdo ducks his head, “Of course, my flower.”

Jaskier’s glare flares. His hand itches to throw a punch. He hasn’t hit a person in a while, considering Geralt has been doing good in terms of keeping him in check—stopping him just short of a tavern brawl every time. He doubts he would miss though; anyone would see Valdo’s face as the perfect target difficult to ignore.

“You should know to stay out of my way, but you just can’t help yourself, can you?” Jaskier hisses, fingers tightening around his tankard.

His smirk looks awful against the golden embroidered red doublet. He has good fashion taste, Jaskier can give him that; the only original thing the fraud has. Knowing him though, Jaskier won’t be surprised if he copied someone’s style.

“You know me, my flower, just a hopeless romantic for nostalgia. How can I ignore a beautiful old friend like you?” Valdo says, fingers digging into a fruit bowl, popping a grape into his mouth.

“Old?” Jaskier scoffs. “Are those crows’ feet I see?”

Yes, in this moment of time, Jaskier is willing to borrow one of Yennefer’s insults (that has since then turned into a fond sarcastic comment every time they see each other). It’s quite embarrassing to know Valdo can drag him to stoop so low as to _borrow_ insults.

It further irks the bard when Valdo only chuckles, amused in the same way Lambert would be when Jaskier falls on his ass during sparring.

“Let’s just say I age for the both of us, especially since you’ve aged so beautifully,” Valdo jokes, sounding wistful, but it’s impossible to tell if there is any actual sincerity to it. The bard resists the urge to spit in his face.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, it sure has been an awful time catching up. Let’s never do this again, yes?” Jaskier picks up a fresh roll and goes to walk past the two-time cheat.

A hand slaps around his bicep and _grips_. “Now, now, now, that’s not the way to treat a friend—”

“You’re _not_ my friend,” he snaps, dropping the bread roll and wrenching Valdo’s hand off his arm. The man only grabs a fistful of the back of his doublet and yanks him back to the side of the table—the movement subtle and fast enough no one who isn’t looking at them will notice.

Jaskier is closer to him now, close enough to smell the hint of oranges, lemon, the slightly sweet-sour note making Jaskier’s face scrunch—such a familiar scent that always sends him back to those nights in Valdo’s room.

Geralt had wondered why Jaskier so willingly left him to do work alone when they had that one archespore contract at a lemon farm.

Valdo clicks his tongue, sighing softly as if dealing with a bothersome stray, “That wasn’t what you said when came crawling back to me after your Witcher left you in the dust.”

Jaskier’s face twitches. He hopes the wretched, hurt emotion flew past fast enough but based on the amused grin on Valdo’s face, it wasn’t.

Jaskier doesn’t need to think twice to know what he’s talking about. It feels like a lifetime ago when Geralt was dragged to a royal court just like this—Jaskier was so naïve then, having fallen so deeply for his soulmate—that somehow ended with Geralt saddled with the responsibility of a Child Surprise, leaving the bard behind at the party. Jaskier didn’t get to talk to him, he just upped and left wordlessly, surrounded by broken furniture and aghast members of the royal family.

Obviously, Jaskier was hurt. Back then, it had been nearly a decade since they first met; he had thought Geralt trusted him enough to share his personal burdens.

It was so easy to float on the familiar wave of abandonment he started to associate with broken hearts and—sadly, more often than not—Geralt. It also made it much easier to fall into the arms of another.

Valdo wasn’t at Cintra’s court, but he was there at that blasted tavern when Jaskier licking his wounds after the party.

“I’m quite surprised you’re still trailing after him like a lovesick puppy.” Valdo takes obvious pleasure in the way Jaskier’s face twists, flames of anger licking the edges of the bard’s vision. The ‘ _you’re pathetic’_ goes unsaid, but Valdo might as well have said it with the way he mockingly traces a finger under the line of Jaskier’s jaw.

“Even after all this time. I’d have thought you’ve grown a spine by now,” Valdo tells him, voice just above a husky whisper, the words send his temper skyrocketing.

Valdo’s hand slides down his front, nails grazing his throat, a twisted show of his benign mask. Jaskier bares his teeth, trying to slap away the offending limb from his body.

In a blink, the man grips Jaskier’s wrist, fingers digging into his pulse.

“Stop fighting. You know you can’t resist me,” Valdo mutters with a coy smile, like they’re sharing some sort of sick secret. He steps closer, breaking the boundaries of even Jaskier’s personal space, pressing up against his front.

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and he drops his tankard of ale—a twang of fear ringing in his chest—when fingers edge under his doublet, Valdo’s intent very clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do tell me what you guys thought of it! I'm quite excited to share the rest of the fic tbh.  
> Should I tone down some of the writing style? I'm editing the other chapters so feedback would be awesome! I want this to be enjoyable for you guys and me! 💖
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ivegotbreadinmypants)


	2. you hover like a hummingbird, haunt me in my sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier are close friends, having reconciled a while ago so Geralt isn't as emotionally constipated as he was when it was just him and Jaskier—without Ciri and Yen and the other Witchers.  
> So, that's why he isn't as cold or mean when it comes to Jaskier (He might be a little to other people but to his family? Nah.)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Title and quote from [Of Monsters And Men - Wolves Without Teeth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VAI5GSyXMjA)

> _I can see through you, we are the same_
> 
> _It's perfectly strange, you run in my veins_
> 
> _How can I keep you inside my lungs_
> 
> _I breathe what is yours, you breathe what is mine_

“You should know you two are not very subtle,” duchess Emylya comments, sipping her wine with delicate hands, peering over the rim at Geralt.

Amber eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yes, denial. That _always_ works.

The duchess laughs as she tips her head back. Geralt grits his teeth, peering into his goblet of ale that he wishes is full right about now.

“People can tell when two are soulmates. It’s prevalent in everything they do,” she says once the amusement has passed, idly picking apart the empty stem of grapes on her plate.

“For instance—” she starts, leaning over her armrest, nodding to the court, “you have looked over to your bard six times since the start of our conversation.”

Geralt resists the urge to prove her right, but even then, there is an itch to stare into those playful blue eyes.

“He needs protection from jealous husbands,” he says blankly, as if it excuses the fact he hasn't taken his eyes off of the bard. Emylya adopts a knowing smile.

“I thought you said your bard has never been to Mellaburn,” she wonders out loud, an innocent sparkle in her eyes. “I hardly think he would know anyone here.”

Geralt grits his teeth, averting his gaze— _not_ to look at Jaskier, mind you.

“And—” she swipes a finger over his sleeve, as if she’s wiping dust, “I’ve never seen a Witcher as relaxed as you when your bard merely brushed his hand against your back.”

“He’s not my bard,” he grounds out, almost too quick to retort. The duchess’ brows fly to her hairline.

“Not only are you insufferably unsubtle, I can hardly miss the fact the man is nearly two decades older than me and still looks like he just popped out of studying at Oxenfurt. Don't take me for a fool.” She shakes her head, looking slightly indignant as she waves her cup of wine around. He wonders if she’s born royal or married into it. With the way she’s unashamed of acting regal at every moment, he’d bet it’s the latter.

“Also, not your bard? Twenty-three years of knowing each other and he’s not _your_ bard?” she asks, a touch of mirthful confusion in her features. Geralt is silent, not unsure of what to say at all—considering he knows any word he says would be turned on its head.

“I was still a child when I heard of Dandelion’s first ballad of you.” At her snort of laughter, Geralt sighs, mindlessly wondering if he’d get hanged if he rolls his eyes at the duchess.

He hears the music come to a graceful end, the room echoing with applause. Geralt doesn’t need to look over to know they’re taking a break.

“What’s your point?”

If he gets drunk enough, he might be able to survive the rest of this conversation. He just hopes Jaskier’s next performance will have the room excited enough so that the duchess won’t be able to hear him over the deafening cheers.

“I am merely curious. Pray tell,” she leans back into her chair, looking far too amused for someone to be messing with a Witcher, “does the bard know you’re in love with him?”

Geralt chokes, ale dribbling from the side of his mouth. The duchess blinks, seemingly not surprised by his reaction at all. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, sending a testy glare her way.

“Pray tell, _My Grace_ , are all duchesses this nosy?” he grits out, grabbing a napkin to dry his ale-covered hands.

“No, Witcher, just this one. One who has a penchant for sad love stories,” she merely says, not at all sounding insulted by his sarcasm.

Geralt takes a risky and rolls his eyes for real this time, sighing once again. The evening feels much longer now that there’s the prospect of being meticulously studied by one annoying yet slightly endearing duchess.

“You two are going to grow old together for as long as you live. But…” 

“Why waste time?” Geralt scrunches his nose, the old thought from years ago wringing buried emotions out in his chest. 

“He may live long, longer than any regular human. But he’s still _human._ ” The ale tastes like ash in his mouth and he glares into his cup.

“He’s vulnerable, Witcher. How much longer until he’s in mortal danger, _real_ danger, and you realize that maybe… maybe you didn’t have enough time together at all.” Geralt's fingers are taut around his goblet, dignity steadfast in not looking for those wide, blue skies.

“That may happen years, months or even days further down the road. You never know. That day might even be tomorrow.” The duchess' voice is low, yet somehow it drowns out every other noise in the room.

“I’m not saying that this is a certainty.” Geralt fights the building urge to _look_ at Jaskier, to quell his incessant clambering thoughts.

“But sometimes, it’s just better to be safe than sorry. Especially when it comes to the people we love.” 

Geralt stares at her, gaze flat and distant. “You’re oddly wise for someone your age.”

“Not wise. Just perceptive. And I, for one, learn from my mistakes.” The duchess finished with a sip of her wine, the knowing glint in her eye never fading.

Geralt has thought about it before. How can he not? The life of a Witcher is not something to laugh at. They are mutants for a reason; no human can achieve the feats they do, they can't learn the decades of training and rudimentary magic without wrecking their body along the way.

He made a promise to Jaskier years ago, to keep him safe from harm. And he's yet to break it.

It's why Geralt often tries his best not to bring Jaskier along to his dangerous contracts (which is most of them, much to the bard's chagrin). Jaskier may be his soulmate, but he's human and vulnerable and susceptible to things Witchers wouldn't even blink an eye at.

It's also why Geralt and the other Wolven Witchers decided to teach the bard the basics of combat. They don't ever use their true strength on him—not even close—but even then, Geralt can see that _that_ pushes Jaskier to his limits. He's getting better with every training session but it's still a far cry from being a master.

And that _terrifies_ Geralt. If Jaskier can't hold his own on an uneven match against a nearly defenseless Witcher, what would happen if Jaskier has to face something much worse than that? And that Geralt won't be there to protect him?

It's a string of thoughts he tries not to get tangled in.

Over the years, the fear only grew, especially when nowadays Geralt gets more heat from Nilfgaard because of Ciri. His daughter may be vulnerable, but she's powerful enough to kill crowds of people with a scream. But Jaskier? The man may be able to jump into a tavern brawl and leave with barely a bruise, but what can he do against monsters? Swing his lute blindly and hope he wins?

Geralt shakes his head. It's a funny image, but it's a reality Geralt can never bring himself to laugh at.

But it does beg the question why he doesn't reach out and bridge the gap between them, growing their friendship into something more—something he denies he wants. He just imagines it would hurt less if he lost Jaskier as a friend rather than as the love of his life, his everything.

He knows his reasoning is utter horseshit, though. He can't quite fully fool himself into thinking that—because really, how can he? When Jaskier is already both of those things?

His eyes roam the room, looking for a mop of brown hair within the crowds.

He spots Jaskier, but his brows furrow when he sees another dark-haired man come to stand next to him, the mysterious man’s back towards Geralt.

Geralt exhales heavily, exasperated. Another jealous lover.

Considering the many times he’s saved Jaskier from this particular predicament, Geralt is actually curious how the bard has survived this long. Geralt wonders if he can talk his way out without him intervening.

He takes a sip of ale from his goblet, staring inconspicuously at the conversing pair. They seem to be in deep conversation, which has him leaning forward in his seat, curiosity piqued. He convinces himself he will step in if the man pulls out a knife or something that can maim his— _the_ bard.

Amusement tugs at his lips when Jaskier looks more irritated than anything, his blue eyes rolling almost every time the other man opens his mouth.

_Not a jealous lover then. They know each other._

Jaskier seems guarded but he doesn’t see the man as a threat; he’s not nervous like those other times Geralt pulled husbands (and sometimes wives) away from hurting the bard. Geralt snorts into his goblet when Jaskier grimaces like he’s grown tired of the conversation, picking up his speed to leave the man behind.

Only the man doesn’t let him go.

Geralt’s goblet stops half-way to his lips, following their movements with his eyes, the amusement dying away.

The man has his hand wrapped around Jaskier’s arm, his knuckles white. The bard snaps at something he says, drops his bread roll and jerks the man’s hand off him, looking _furious._

Geralt slams his goblet down onto the table when the man _snatches Jaskier back to him;_ leaning in too close for Geralt’s comfort.

He bolts from his chair, not answering the duchess’ startled inquiries.

The man is whispering something into Jaskier’s ear, and Geralt can feel a harsh tug in his chest—something hot and liquid sliding between his veins. It _burns_ when he can see the man touch Jaskier’s face—who is wincing at it—like he belongs to him.

The court is big and crowded, Geralt doesn’t know if he can make it fast enough to get to his bard, who is—

Jaskier is—

Geralt can _feel_ the twang of fear in his bones, their soul-bond trembling from the weight of Jaskier’s emotion spilling over to Geralt.

He’s ripping the man off the bard before he’s even thinking about it, placing himself as a barrier between the two as he shoves the man away.

“Ah— _Geralt!_ ” Jaskier breathes, relief rolling off him in waves, and—before Geralt can blink—slides up next to the Witcher, the bard's arm winding around his waist. The tremor going through his arm (Geralt can even feel it through his doublet) betrays his self-assured smile. Geralt can hardly see through the fog of possessive fury creeping in.

“Darling, I was just about to tell you about my uh—my old friend,” Jaskier says, too bright and cheerful for that twinge of fear Geralt felt to be fake, the emotion having hit him like a wild wave against a cliff-side. Geralt’s sudden and aptly timed appearance flicked a switch in Jaskier, going from a shaking leaf to a dog happy to see its owner; not that Jaskier is happy—Geralt can sniff the anxiety on him—but the strong relief emanating from within Geralt’s soul is comparable to excitement.

The Witcher blinks, something crossing over his face when he hears Jaskier’s words in his head. Jaskier has many nicknames for Geralt, but _darling_ is not one of them.

Geralt takes in his pale face, wide blinking eyes and quivering voice, and rumbles out softly, gentle words only for Jaskier to hear, “Are you alright? Did he touch you?”

Jaskier pauses, staring deeply into Geralt’s golden eyes for a moment, blue eyes impossibly shiny, but eventually nods. “I’m fine.”

Geralt waits for his next answer.

“Jaskier, _did he touch you?_ ”

Jaskier heart-stopping silence is drowned out by the roaring in Geralt’s ears. A deep, thunderous growl rattles in his chest, once golden eyes now looking like hot molten lava under his furrowed brows, his nose flaring as he snarls.

“I see you have your hound with you,” the man says, and Geralt whirls to face him. His tone deceptively light for the sharp look in his green eyes, still acting as if what he did won’t get him speared onto Geralt’s sword. He’s dusting his shoulders like the Witcher had dirtied him, and Geralt wonders if he’ll be able to see bloodstains on his red doublet.

Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s side, the touch nearly sending Geralt keeling over, and the Witcher glances over to his bard. His smile is terse, but those cornflower eyes are _seething._

“Excuse me?” Jaskier asks, tone dangerous.

The man looks between the two of them. “You’ve gotten your _White Wolf_ to protect you again. How quaint. Really, I must congratulate you, flower, for picking a perfectly apt name for your pup.”

Geralt doesn’t remember the number of times Jaskier has stood up for him; he’s lost count. And every time, without fail, it stuns Geralt that a person like Jaskier—someone who loves everyone and everything, someone who feels so much—can have the seemingly infinite capacity to genuinely care for a white-haired Witcher and take the harsh words of narrow-minded people in Geralt’s stead, even throwing some biting ones back.

This time is no different.

“You should watch what you say, Valdo, ‘cause I won’t hesitate to cut that tongue out,” Jaskier hisses, the threat sounding sour with resentment in spite of the shivers running through him.

“Do you need your wolf with you all the time? It seems like you’ve only a spine when he comes to your rescue.”

Geralt glowers, stepping to the side to better shield Jaskier from—wait, Valdo? Why does that name sound familiar?

“Believe it or not, I’ve had to stop Jask from hurting people more than he had to me. Even then, I don’t think he’ll stop me this time,” Geralt grumbles, rolling his shoulders, fingers curling into fists.

Valdo tuts. “Careful, Witcher. Would you truly hurt me? In a room full of witnesses? I thought you smarter than the bard.” His tone is patronizing, inherently chafing Geralt’s temper to smithereens.

“It would be a shame, after all the little flower’s done for you. Singing about your… _adventures_ and all that. Practically birthing your reputation.” He grins, a slimy thing. His voice is grating, talking about their life-threatening journeys around the Continent as if they were innocent little children’s trips to the town's well.

Geralt casts an eye around. There isn’t a crowd circling them, but they’ve caused enough commotion to have the closest people glance over nervously.

“I don’t care,” the Witcher grits out, gold on green, ringing in his ears from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. “You touched him.”

All he sees is red—feels the echo of that twang of unbridled terror like a lute string tugged harshly—and it brightens to a rich golden fire, rage drumming through him as he thinks about how Valdo touched him, he _touched Jaskier, he’ll kill that son of a whore—_

Callused fingertips smooth their way into his sweating palm, ring-laden fingers lacing with his own, grounding him into earth. Jaskier’s hand squeezes around his, a tipped over boat finally having peace on choppy waters.

“Love, I don’t think the two-faced weasel is worth it.” The words are spoken to a riled-up dog, protective of its pup. He feels the words more than hears them, soft quivering breaths in half-whispers fanning across the side of his neck. It’s soothing, cooling against the red-hot cinders of his anger. But it also alights something dormant within Geralt, like a sparkling star in the darkest of nights.

Valdo’s face twists for merely a moment. Geralt tilts his head, curious. It’s the first sign of something other than cocky indifference.

It seems that Valdo has a weakness.

The bard seems to have picked up on it too and is quick to unmask it for what it is, because he’s now closing the distance between him and Geralt, pressing his front against the Witcher’s tensed side and back.

Valdo’s temples pulsate.

He doesn’t like how Jaskier isn’t _his—_ isn’t an obedient pet _._

Jaskier releases his right arm around Geralt and instead reaches up to slide it across and over his shoulder, hand coming to rest on his pec, practically _draping_ himself over the Witcher—like a territorial cat. Jaskier noses the side of Geralt’s neck, goosebumps rising in the wake of Jaskier’s skin delicately running across his.

It’s a clear message.

Jaskier may not be Geralt’s

—but _Geralt is Jaskier’s._

Geralt knows they must look ridiculous, what with Jaskier’s defensive posturing and Geralt’s cautious stormy gaze that would bring even the strongest man to his knees; but all he feels is the curl of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach, warming like a campfire when Jaskier’s cheekbone brushes against the scruff of Geralt’s jaw.

In spite of it, it seems to be working. Their staring contest has come down to Valdo’s withering glare, uncontrollable hostility clear in his green eyes. But then a smirk slides onto that whoreson’s face.

“Does he know about the times we spent in my bed chambers? After the times he would leave you?”

Jaskier goes stiff as a rock, his breath stuttering, clearly unsure of how to react to such callously thrown words, but Geralt doesn’t let the words phase him—

(—a quiet part of his mind rages, howls within its cage, desperate to claw the man’s throat out for making Jaskier feel this way—)

and only stands straighter, puffing his chest, broadening his shoulders.

(—that same part of him purrs at the way Jaskier’s fingers twitch and dig into his muscles, testing the Witcher's strength like he’s dipping a toe into an angry ocean’s waters—)

He meets cornflower blue eyes, hardened amber sap melting into warm honey, and squeezes Jaskier’s hand. It’s his turn to settle the anxious bard back to the Continent.

His gaze snaps back to the toxic green, and the raging fire comes back.

“Do you know he’d once wished a djinn to kill you?” Valdo blinks, not expecting such a remark.

There’s a tiny puff of laughter behind him, tugging Geralt's lips into a small smirk. “It’s a shame, really. I regret that they turned out to be my wishes. I’d much prefer it now if he’d had them.”

Geralt wants to crowd into the Valdo’s space, growling, prowling and intimidating him like the White Wolf he is, but because he’s held so gently and protectively by the bard, he won’t move a muscle as long as the bard keeps him pacified, like a docile dog kept on a leash. A small part of him withers from the lack of dignity in his thoughts, but he finds he mostly doesn't care.

“Don’t underestimate my bard. It’s always a mistake to do so,” Geralt rumbles, the slight intonation of pride in his voice completely sincere. At the twitch of Jaskier’s fingers, he glances around and realizes they have a bigger audience now. They should leave since they're attracting more attention. Only Valdo narrows his eyes, stepping closer, clearly not finished with them yet, opening his mouth to retort but Geralt beats him to it.

“I’d listen if he says he’ll cut your tongue out. You should just hope I’m around next time to stop him.”

Valdo turns his nose up at them.

“Geralt, do you think we get more pockets in all my doublets? I wished I had somewhere to keep the silver dagger on me this evening,” Jaskier says it so casually, so flippantly and _Gods_ —Geralt wishes he can kiss the bard senseless at this moment.

He remembers that silver dagger, a gift for his fortieth birthday because Geralt knows he can’t always protect Jaskier from all types of monsters. He even remembers teaching him how to wield it. Another thrum of adorations rings through him as he recalls how Jaskier, with that particular silver blade, had saved his life more than once.

Jaskier had no problem with taking care of the bandits who threatened to kill Geralt, utterly ruthless with the blade. He doesn’t doubt that the bard would carry out his threat.

Valdo’s icy glare hardens. It’s disturbing to think how Jaskier used to love this person; but at the same, it isn’t because Jaskier falls in love with everybody, falls so freely with abandon, shares pieces of himself to people who don’t deserve it. 

They should leave the scene. Despite his constant complaints of needing to rescue Jaskier, he would never willingly leave the bard in danger. He needs to get him out of here, away from the whoreson.

He’s _never_ felt Jaskier’s fear so strongly over the soul-bond before. This was the first time it's ever happened. Not even on the more dangerous contracts did Geralt feel such horror over their bond. It rattled him to his core when he was making his hurried way to them, discomforted by how easily Valdo set off the bard.

Geralt stares at Valdo for a moment longer, disgust twisting his face. The man only has beady eyes for Jaskier, somehow looking eerie as he contemplates something.

The Witcher turns around to face Jaskier, but keeps a cautious side-eye on the threat, not trusting the man to stay silent. Geralt’s grip moves to Jaskier’s wrist, unwinding from his embrace—despite the strong urge to stay put. He brushes his thumb over the bard’s pulse point,

(—and tries to calm the beast when he feels the indentations of crescent moons dug into the skin—)

pressing a thumb into that little rhythmic beat of Jaskier’s life. A small weight lifts off of Geralt.

“You alright?” Geralt mumbles, staring deeply into the blue, blue sky. Jaskier nods and opens his mouth—

“You’re proud of that little whore, are you not?”

 _Fire_ burns his heart inside out, lightning striking back with a vengeance and Geralt is then sliding away from Jaskier and closing the distance between him and the fucking whoreson, intending to snap his neck and be done with the _pest_ — _no one has a right to talk about Jaskier like that—_

“Geralt!” The desperate plea of a sweet voice stops him, freezes him in place, just a jerk of his hands away from clawing the eyes of a certain green-eyed bastard.

His fists are white-knuckled, tremoring as they clutch at Valdo's collar with the suppressed temper of a hundred storms. He brutally yanks him into his space, golden eyes flashing.

 _Finally,_ there’s a flash of fear in those green eyes. For once, Geralt does not mind the fear directed at him, in fact he _revels_ in it. He _should_ be afraid. Geralt of Rivia is a _Witcher,_ a cold-blooded monster-killing machine, and he’s a Witcher whose soulmate was just _threatened_ , _bullied._

Valdo isn’t taller than Geralt and neither is the Witcher, but his hulking size, bulging arms and barely restrained bloodthirsty mania paints a terrifying picture.

“If it weren’t for Jaskier, I’d castrate you with my _bare fucking hands_.” His growl comes deep from his chest, voice harsh, gnarly. His glowing eyes brighten, snarl baring a little more of that teeth. Then he smells it.

A slow grin stretching his lips, a dark wolfish thing he knows is a horror to look at. “I can smell it on you.”

The Witcher narrows his eyes. _“Fear.”_

The scent only gets thicker.

“What in the Gods’ names is happening here?”

Geralt doesn’t stray his gaze away from his target, the murderous glint in fiery embers still being stoked by the way the man heartlessly treated Jaskier. He’s never quite gotten worked up like this before, in regard to his soulmate—including the times the worst types of jealous lovers crowded Jaskier against his will, spitting bodily threats at the bard.

Those types of people would usually cower in seconds under the glower of one irate Witcher who has come to the bard's rescue. But this, _this_ is different. The violent threats can’t quite compare to the utter bullshit spewing from Valdo’s mouth; they’re more personal and targeted, aimed perfectly blow-for-blow to fish the desired reaction from Jaskier. It’s clear Valdo knows him well—they are, or rather, were close enough for Valdo to which of the bard's buttons to push, words digging themselves to the hilt in Jaskier.

Geralt would rather not think about the other aspects of their closeness. But it’s clear they have a more than platonic history together.

And it absolutely _enrages_ Geralt that the man would use their past relationship as a weapon, throwing words on a whim like they were daggers, with no regard for the bard’s boundaries—

(—and Jaskier is not known to have many of them; but that just makes the whole thing worse, doesn’t it?)

That a man like Jaskier, who is open and selfless and unabashedly loving, is reduced to—

(—not weak, _never weak—_ )

—such a vulnerable state, come apart by threats and unwelcomed manhandling.

“Ah—it’s nothing, Your Grace,” Jaskier blurts. Geralt looks at him over his shoulder, incredulous.

“Like shit it’s nothing,” Great grumbles. The whole room is staring at them now. Just for once, can he go to a ball without stirring any trouble and drink in peace?

“Witcher?” the duchess asks gently as she looks between the three of them, pausing at the sight of Geralt’s raised hackles and bared teeth. He meets the eyes of the duchess and, to his surprise, finds himself glad that this particular nosy royal has a soft spot for love stories.

“This man,” he nods jerkily at Valdo, “just insulted and _threatened_ my soulmate.”

A collective gasp is heard throughout the room, and only by his sensitive hearing does he hear the incredulous whispers. Apparently, a lot of people thought Witchers can’t have soulmates; yet, here he is, evidence in the flesh.

Valdo’s eyes spark with realization, chuckling darkly. “At least now I know why you haven’t aged a day since we met.”

There are soft warbles in the back of Jaskier’s throat, words wanting to be spoken but unsure of its delivery.

The rage in his gut simmers. Jaskier _never_ hesitates in dishing out the most cutting and outlandish insults. To know Valdo has such an effect on him—where Jaskier is second-guessing himself—only makes Geralt want to tear the man apart even more.

It’s so rare that people connect the dots between him and Jaskier, figuring out they share a soul-bond; but he doubts it would get any less disorienting when the fact is shoved in their faces, much less said out-loud. Their soul-bond is mostly left unspoken, a rule deemed by Geralt from the first day they met. It became clear to Jaskier that Geralt isn’t one to hold back his punches, literally, even when it comes to his soulmate.

Geralt once mused over the thought that Jaskier must assume the Witcher doesn’t see his soulmate differently from the next person when it can’t be any further from the truth.

The duchess’ lips are set into a firm line, eyes grim. She turns to Valdo and says, “Is this true?”

Valdo backtracks, voice light, “My Grace, I was not aware that the Witcher is his soulmate. And I was merely catching up with an old friend—”

“By insulting him and using emotional blackmail?” Geralt grits out, eyes glinting dangerously.

Valdo cocks a brow, as if he’s challenging him in front of the duchess.

“My Grace, whatever the bard and I discuss is only meant to be kept private, _without_ a Witcher interrupting our conversation.”

Geralt’s hands roll back into fists. “I _felt_ his fear over the soul-bond. You did something to him.”

At this, something heavy and dark is shown through the duchess’ delicate features. “You felt the soul-bond?”

Geralt nods, and more murmurs erupt from the crowd. It's rare that one person of the soul-bond feels something so inherently strong, that their conscience calls out for their other. It's a phenomenon not to be taken lightly. Everyone in the room knows the weight of his statement.

“Pray tell,” the duchess starts, her tone gaining an edge, “what exactly did you do?”

Valdo opens his mouth, but Geralt cuts in, “My Grace, no offence but I think we should ask Jaskier for the details.”

Geralt glances over to the bard in question, who stares at him for a long silent moment before gratefully nodding, something soft in those blue eyes. Geralt doesn’t want Valdo to spout details Jaskier wouldn’t want out in the open. He isn’t quite sure what Valdo did, but he knows it’s terrible if it ruffled Jaskier’s feathers enough that even Geralt would feel the repercussions.

He’s put the ball in Jaskier’s court, giving him control over the person who has ruined their evening.

“Master Dandelion?” the duchess softly inquires. Jaskier swallows hard, back going stiff again. He gapes and closes his mouth, deep in thought, probably trying to figure how to put what happened into words.

“Uh, well, he didn’t leave a mark on me,” Jaskier simply says, “not visible ones.”

The duchess goes stiffer than Jaskier. “But he laid his hands on you, yes?”

Something flashes across Jaskier’s eyes, meeting the royal’s gaze. The air thickens, and Geralt feels like he’s missing a part of the conversation between the two when Jaskier solemnly nods. The duchess straightens up, snapping her head towards Valdo with a cold gaze, similar to Geralt’s much more heated glare.

“My Grace, you have no idea if this bard is telling the truth,” Valdo points out, still playing the act.

“There are many witnesses. I am sure at least one person in this court has seen what transpired.”

She steps closer to Valdo and Geralt, her crown practically shattering the glass ceiling, a terrifying aura coming off the duchess.

“Even so, you shall show Master Dandelion the respect he has earned. He is one of the most famed bards, if not the most, in our time.”

The more the duchess inches closer, the further Geralt steps away from Valdo, certain the duchess can handle the man. Behind him, he hears the soft footfalls of his bard and he reaches behind blindly, groping for Jaskier’s hand, which squeezes his once their fingers lace together.

“My Grace, might I remind you I am Master Valdo Marx, also a bard of high regard.” The man does a graceful little bow, a little smug smirk on his face. Both Geralt and Jaskier don’t resist the urge to roll their eyes. Suck-up.

A finely shaped brow arches high on the duchess’ face.

“I’m afraid I’ve not heard of you.”

Snickers amongst the crowd break the silence, and even Jaskier can’t help the snort of amusement. An annoyed frown briefly crosses Valdo’s face.

“You should be aware that in Mellaburn, we do not tolerate any foul play against soulmates, _especially_ if it’s against the most renowned bard in the Continent and _Geralt of Rivia.”_ The duchess’ tone is one of incredulous disbelief, as if she’s reminding him how much of an idiot he is for going after a Witcher’s soulmate.

“I hardly doubt the two would hold back had I not intervened,” the duchess says, now standing in front of Valdo, somehow towering over him despite her petite stature.

“Not to forget, they are my _special guests._ I expect everyone to treat them the same way they do with the members of the ducal table. I do not accept _anything less_.” Her eyes flash, words cutting. She awfully reminds Geralt of lilac and the chaos behind violet eyes.

The look on Valdo’s face is one of subtle indignation, brows in a slight furrow as he stares down the royal. It’s a thorough dressing down even with the little words the duchess said. Valdo looks around, as if finally realizing he’s crowded in a corner, everyone’s eyes watching his every movement. The sharpness in his eyes dulls like a dagger being sheathed, and he puts his hands up in a placating manner, subtly surrendering.

Geralt’s snarl deepens. He does not want to spend another moment around this heinous snake or stand around getting gawked at.

“Duchess Emylya,” he calls out. She does not turn her gaze away from Valdo, still accessing him from head to toe.

“Yes, Witcher?”

“If you don’t mind, Jaskier and I will be taking our leave."

Jaskier grips his hand tighter, cutting him off, “But I didn’t get to finish my performance—"

“Of course. I shall get a guard to escort you to your room and a handmaiden to provide as much provisions as you see fit for your trip tomorrow.” She shoots a look at Jaskier—like a worried mother chastising her child, and Geralt nods gratefully, but he pauses at the offer of a room.

It must be an apology of sorts, letting them stay at their palace even though they already have a room at the town’s inn. He doesn’t look at a gift horse in the mouth, however. The duke, having stood by watching the entire confrontation, calls for a guard.

Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hand—and has to resist when Jaskier gripped it tighter at the last second to keep the Witcher close—to walk over to the speechless group of minstrels, picking up Jaskier’s treasured lute in his hands. He returns to Jaskier, a guard already by the bard’s side, who looks absolutely bewildered by the turn of events.

He passes over the lute, sharing a reassuring look—those soft blues warming in his gaze. Jaskier nearly ducks his head, lips twitching from a flat line to a tiny smile—the sight of it unfurls a knot in Geralt's chest, one he didn't know he had.

The bard mumbles a soft ‘thank you’ and trails after the guard who leads their way out, Geralt at his heels—who sends one last scathing look at Valdo before they leave the pin-drop silent room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do tell me what you think! I enjoy reading and replying to comments so don't be shy to tell me what you think! Even if it's just an emoji or a 'second kudos'. <3
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ivegotbreadinmypants) Same name.


	3. brave face talk so lightly, hide the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier freaks out because Valdo came _this_ close to telling Geralt.
> 
> And Geralt is just a little confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun editing this chapter cause it's just...AH hfjksl  
> you'll see.  
> Anyway, the next part will be a shot epilogue so do stay around for the next part. Should come in another day!
> 
> Chapter title and quote from dodie's ["Sick Of Losing Soulmates."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qGFAkyfjDU) *wink wink*

> Time and hearts will wear us thin, so which path will you take
> 
> 'cause we both know a break does exactly what it says on the tin

“This is your room. See to it that you two relax after tonight’s… festivities,” the guard stutters, his uncertain eyes glancing between the both of them, before taking his leave.

Jaskier can still feel the uncomfortable edge of what just happened, a blunt blade held up to his neck. He's filled with countless unspoken strings of thoughts—some shameful, others just confused—and even with years of learning and teaching in Oxenfurt under his belt, he can't find the words to start. It does not help when Geralt does not say a word to remedy the thick awkward silence. Amber eyes meld to his as they stand opposite each other on either side of the door, an odd gap between the two of them. Jaskier feels like leaning on the threshold to give off more casualty than he can actually muster, but he is pretty sure Geralt can smell the discomfort on him anyway.

The lilt on his lips twinges, probably making him look even more uneven, like he just placed the wrong foot in a dance repertoire and everyone on the Continent is seeing him fail. He coughs, glancing down to the cobble-stone ground. The air suddenly tastes too thick, akin to swimming through muck during the summer in a drowner’s swamp. The grime of Valdo’s bites and everyone’s stares rub on his skin like a thick salve. Jaskier hates it.

There is a sharp inhale from Geralt, and Jaskier adopts a sheepish expression, not caring to hide how bothered he feels, considering Geralt already has sniffed it off of him.

“Can we go outside?” Jaskier asks, itching to leave the tightening space. Not that the castle is something to laugh at, but the pressure of being in another room without fresh air is leaving him dizzy, disgusted, as he tries to cover up how much Valdo’s words affected him.

Golden eyes are sharp when they take in every twitch and movement of his, and gratitude floods his body when they glint with approval. “Hm.”

Jaskier’s grin stretches, a little less shaky than his last, and he turns on his heel. Geralt quickly takes over for him, guiding him to the closest exit—or at least the closest space of fresh air there is.

Knowing Geralt, he is probably sniffing out grass or trees or whatever the fuck that guides them out of the stone hallways and into a garden.

The second Jaskier is out of shelter and under the vast blanket of night—speckled with glinting stars and gently lit by a half-moon—he heaves a relieved breath. For a moment, he’s able to forget about green eyes and the smell of spilled ale.

He still cannot quite wrap his head around what transpired in a supposedly peaceful evening of partying and singing. Everything happened too quickly. All he wanted was a drink, but suddenly Geralt was snarling like a wolf, and the duchess was interrogating his ex-lover-slash-rival like he was a war criminal.

Geralt is staring at him with this strange cautious look, as if he worries Jaskier would suddenly drop to the ground or burst into tears. Jaskier is feeling an urge to do a combination of the two.

He waves Geralt off, though, because he is _not_ some damsel in distress, godsdamnit—no matter how many times Geralt has come to his rescue.

In spite of his visible concern, Geralt lets him set the pace for the two of them as they lead further into the lush greenery.

All the plants are well-kept and groomed, flowers blooming and gleaming under the moonlight, the grass soft under their feet, leaves so green it makes the colours of its bore fruits pop. The trees are tall and beautifully gnarly, branches cutting shadows over the two of them as they follow the bare bones of a stone path. It’s one of the prettiest gardens Jaskier has ever seen, but he can admit to himself that all of it is not as pretty as seeing nature at the roadside, due to the fact he’s spent years travelling with Geralt and has viewed more ethereal scenery than any designed garden could be—nature in its truest form.

They eventually break into a clearing, edges of the circular plane surrounded by rose bushes—flowers in colours Jaskier hasn’t ever seen them in.

There’s a fountain in the middle, the moonlight striking the water just right so the blinding lines of glittering white hit Jaskier’s eyes—reminding him of refracting light in a chandelier.

Jaskier heaves a sigh, the tension leaking out of his body like a barrel full of holes. He lets himself sink down to the grass, legs almost buckling under him out of sheer laziness. He kicks out his knees and splays out his legs, his hands melting into the soft, damp ground under him.

Above him Geralt quietly chuckles, watching as Jaskier turns into a pile of goo. Jaskier rocks his head back and grins up, catching the gleam of buttercups even in the dark shadows of Geralt’s face. He waves a lazy hand and Geralt can only comply, settling down more gracefully than Jaskier did.

They sit in silence for a while, letting things marinate before they dig deep into the questions Geralt no doubt has. Jaskier is eternally grateful to his friend for letting him have a moment of peace, even if it will inevitably be broken by Geralt’s curiosity.

He has to tell the man anyway. They’ve known each other for years and yet Jaskier has never said a word of the most annoying man alive.

“Jaskier.” Well, time’s up.

“Who is Valdo Marx?”

“What a loaded question,” the bard whispers. Geralt will hear him anyway.

“A very, very old friend,” he eventually says, leaning back to rest his hands behind him, tilting his face up to stare at the glittering sky.

“Someone who took advantage of me during my lowest points.” Jaskier huffs under his breath, and he feels a small weight falls off his shoulders. It’s a step in the right direction, at least. “I thought he’d forgotten what happened.”

Geralt sighs with familiar ire, a sound that tickles Jaskier’s urge to grin. “What did you do?”

Without skipping a beat, Jaskier slaps a hand on his chest, digging his fingers into his heart dramatically. “Why, oh why, do you think I’m the one who started the trouble?”

He flashes a beaming smile—even if it is a little strained at the edges (but he tries, for Geralt. Because if there’s one thing Geralt hates, it’s seeing Jaskier upset)—then dips his head to stare at the Witcher. Geralt snorts and rolls his eyes, knocking his shoulder against Jaskier’s.

“Okay, fair point,” Jaskier concedes, “but I swear on Melitele it wasn’t me that time.”

The corners of his lips droop, knowing the next part of the story. And based on Geralt’s polite silence, the man can guess it’s nothing good.

“We met a long time ago. In Cintra.”

“Was it—”

“Yeah.” Jaskier glances into bright honey eyes and finds concern that makes his heart twist. “Pavetta’s betrothal party.”

He chuckles darkly. “Really, I wasn’t at the right sorts in that particular moment when he found me.”

“What? Did your new trophy of the night slip through your fingers?” the joke is said in a light rumble, but Jaskier can only stare deeply into Geralt’s eyes, something wistful in him pulling the corner of his lips up.

“Something like that.”

Geralt frowns briefly, hearing the hidden message in his tone but unable to decipher it. Jaskier wants to laugh at how adorable Geralt’s face, thinking hard as his brows furrow, like he’s trying to break down one of Jaskier’s more complicated lines of pretty poetry.

Jaskier pulls the words out of his throat, finding it difficult for the truth to come out naturally. “We had an… arrangement of sorts, for a while. He’s a bard too, so it was inevitable we bonded over our shared of words.”

Geralt nods, understanding what Jaskier is putting down. Valdo wasn’t exactly subtle about their past relationship. Him and Valdo were repeated lovers, with him constantly dragging his feet back to Valdo after a rough stint with Geralt.

For a moment, Jaskier feels his heart darken but—

_No._

_He is not going to be sad about this._

“For all the bloody good that did,” he spits. “He stole a few of my songs. Ones I’d share with him. And whenever I’d bring it up, that bastard would turn my own words on me.”

Geralt is quiet for a moment, and eventually says dryly, “Surely, that can’t be all the reason why you wished a djinn to give him a stroke?”

Jaskier can’t help it, he cracks up. The abrupt way the layer of tension was cut by such a blunt statement can only be done by Geralt—a tiny smirk playing upon the man’s lips. Jaskier wants to see that smirk again and again until every line and curve of his expression is seared into the planes of his mind.

“Gods, that man was so close to dying. It’s really such a shame.”

“I agree,” Geralt says, yellow eyes gleaming.

Jaskier breathes the last puff of laughter, his eyes straying away from his friend. Bright yellow and red roses catch his eye, and he gapes.

“What pretty flowers,” he mutters, suddenly leaping to his feet to cross the space and reach the lush bushes. His delicate fingers pluck a singular red and a yellow rose from their stem, unable to help himself.

Geralt is rolling his eyes when he’s settling back down in his spot, but Jaskier can hardly care less when he’s so utterly entranced by the bright petals, colours a sharp contrast to the deep green of the grass under him. He glances up to see a familiar look on the Witcher’s face—the one he has whenever Jaskier wanders off to jump into a bed of flowers, unable to resist such natural beauty, dancing amongst plumes of beaming dandelions or glowing carnations.

Jaskier can feel the tell-tale signs before he's aware of _why_ he's reacting, warmth reaching up to flow flushed against his cheeks, his fingers holding a tiny tremor. Over two decades, and his friend can still bring out such childish, romantic urges from within him. It's fucking exhausting, to be completely honest.

“What?” he asks, voice raised to hide the fact he’d crack and splinter if he goes any softer for the man. Geralt says nothing, only shaking his head with a fond smirk.

“What did he do?” Geralt asks, breaking the spell Jaskier was almost completely under. He wants to wilt at the sudden change, but instead he stays headstrong and lets his mouth run, “It’s really not important. What I’d like to know is how the man’s still alive after all these years, really, I’m surprised the man hasn’t fallen over and died from how big his head’s gotten or just rotted from old age—”

_“Jaskier.”_

“Geralt,” Jaskier mocks in a gruff tone. Geralt doesn’t look irritated but instead even more concerned—Jaskier never thought that possible—by the fact Jaskier is trying his best to divert the subject. And in all honesty, Jaskier is starting to regret his decision in telling his closest friend one of the secrets most tightly wound to his chest.

“I want to know,” Geralt says softly, and _Gods—_

Jaskier almost fucking melts from how Geralt is clearly trying his best to help and understand what he’s going through. The Witcher has come such a long way from the day they met—growling and glowering every moment he’s around another person—and Jaskier can’t be prouder of his emotional intelligence.

So, Jaskier can only sigh, defeated. “He’s... he is an arse, for a start. Didn’t know until I overheard him talking about me behind my back.”

“What did he say?”

Jaskier snorts as ugly as Geralt but with none of the humor. “It’s more of a question of what didn’t he say.”

Fire burns the pit of his stomach, hidden hurt unearthed from its old grave. Scars from over a decade ago make their appearance, showing off every single grisly crevice, every detail of Jaskier’s tainted memory of Valdo.

“He spoke of me in the worst ways possible, in every way possible. What I do, how I talk, sing, walk, eat, breathe— _bollocks_ —even how I fuck.” A sharp sound cuts through his throat, strangled and hurt and _fuck— he’s really still not over this?_

No. He _is._ It’s just because of how much horseshit he had to deal with in the period of time in which he felt like he held the worst hand of cards. Back then, he did not have anyone; no lovers wanted to hear about the day-to-day struggles of a bard and he didn't have friends who he trusted enough; not even Geralt, because the man always high-tailed out of his life whether Jaskier wanted him to. Now though, he would be honestly surprised if Geralt up and left without at least a two-day notice.

Living with a daughter who always worried for her father, Geralt had to learn to be more considerate of everyone around him. Even more so after almost losing Ciri in a village—it was a lesson well learned. 

“I was quite offended by that last one I tell you, I’m quite a generous lover, I don’t hold back.” Geralt grimaces, shooting a look at Jaskier that says, ‘I did _not_ need to know that’.

“He’d talk about me to other minstrels, royals, and just about anyone who had the patience to listen to his bull. For a while, it did hurt my reputation, ruined most of my chances to perform in courts. Thankfully, my new ballads would usually fix it right up. People would rather listen to my wondrous music than to useless gossip.” Jaskier thumbs the edges of the petals, gentle and slow as he stares at its faint veins.

He thinks of Valdo's cutting words.

_Does he know about the times we spent in my bed chambers? After the times he would leave you?_

“That’s not the worst part.” The words are out before he even realizes it, and he clamps his mouth shut, internally groaning.

“Hm. What is it?”

“What?” _Play dumb, play dumb._

“What’s the worst part?” Jaskier jumps at the passive touch of Geralt’s hand, fingers bracing around the cuff of his sleeve, bare fingertips partially meeting his sensitive skin. He stares at the hand—scarred, calloused differently from his, and larger than his own. He wants to place the sweetest kiss on it.

Which is exactly the reason why he can’t tell Geralt what Valdo did.

Valdo’s version of a dagger sinking deep at the hilt is the words he spouted about Geralt. It was so easy to make Jaskier crack, dropping down to his knees for the other bard with naught but harsh jibes. Jaskier doesn’t consider himself to be weak, but he’d be lying if he said he did not have a few weaknesses.

Like Toussiant wine.

Chocolate souffles.

Dancing along to a jig.

Geralt.

“Ah—well, I don’t think you’d like to hear about it, trust me.”

“Jaskier. You know I don’t care about what people say about me.” Ah, Geralt assumed it's something spoken against him and that Jaskier doesn't want to say the words to his face, which isn't such a far fetched assumption. Some part of Jaskier wished that it was, because then he wouldn’t have hesitated to rip Valdo’s face off if he even uttered a word.

“Which is utter bollocks, by the way. You should. I swear to Melitele’s tits, people have no respect.”

“Respect doesn’t make history.”

Jaskier frowns for a second, before his eyes go comically wide, dropping the roses on his lap, mouth slightly agape as he marvels at Geralt. _Oh, the sneaky little—_

“I can’t believe you.”

Geralt’s lips twitch.

“How dare you repeat my words back at me, you, you— _Witcher.”_

“I thought you’d appreciate my words. You’re a poet,” Geralt points out, eyes glowing yellow with humour—much like the bright yellow rose resting atop Jaskier’s thighs.

“Oh, ha-ha,” Jaskier rolls his eyes playfully, “like I’m supposed to like the fact you actually remembered what I said—what? Two decades ago? And in such a sarcastic tone, no less!”

Geralt only keep his smirk steady, brow slowly raising as he waits for Jaskier to crack.

And break he does because, bollocks, Geralt actually remembers something he said from— _holy Melitele’s tits—_ the first day they met. Their first ever adventure together. It’s only by the sheer distraction of Geralt’s bright eyes is he able to ignore the glowing warmth in his chest, tantalizing and familiar in a way that spells _Geralt._

“Okay, fine, yes, I _do_ appreciate it but that does _not_ mean you don’t deserve the utmost respect. I made you famous, remember?”

“More infamous, I think. People who know we travel together always harass me.”

Jaskier tilts his head, curious. “When you’re travelling alone?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier picks up the roses once again, fingers gingerly picking away the thorns. “It’s the same for me. People always ask where my _‘White Wolf’_ is.”

Geralt can’t stop the curious side of himself. “What do you say?”

Jaskier grins, flashing a hint of white. “That he’s chasing his own tail.”

Geralt shoves Jaskier, and the bard can only laugh, affectionate mirth carved in his every feature. The Witcher shares his look—it’s just a little more exasperated than amused.

“Anyway,” he continues, “uh, it wasn’t about you.”

“Hm?”

“What Valdo did—or, maybe it sort of was, in a way. It’s uh,” Jaskier is fumbling—and he’s doing it in the painfully obvious way he does whenever Geralt is around.

Geralt tentatively places a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. And surprisingly, it does quell the harsh drumming of his heart, unbecoming the fleeting staccato rhythm its known for.

“He always rubbed in the fact you’d, uh… always leave.”

A line creases between Geralt’s brows, uncertain. “Leave? What do you mean?”

Well, here it comes. “When we go our separate ways.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Geralt asks.

And well—

Fuck.

Even with Geralt’s comforting touch, his heart is now flying to heavens, like a bird beating its wings erratically to reach the sky and break the clouds. He’s never felt so terrified. Not even a wyvern hunt comes as close to making him fear.

Because—

Even if Jaskier loves hard and fast, dropping down to his knees for anyone at the drop of a hat—

This is _Geralt._

The man who he’s devoted over two decades of his life knowing, caring for and loving. He’s the man who destiny intertwined his string of fate with, sewing them in a big tapestry in the same stitch, looping and crossing and twisting until its almost impossible to separate the two. Geralt is the one for him, and giving himself up completely is a feat his heart can barely take.

But if it means that Geralt gets to see him more clearly, understand him fundamentally, know every piece that makes up Jaskier? Well—

Then he’d shatter his heart and toss it to the wind for him.

"Oh, fuck it all," Jaskier mutters.

“If there’s ever a time to tell you this, I think this is it.”

Jaskier twists in his spot, roses almost crushed in his shaking hands. “Geralt, can you please promise me you won’t punch me? I think I’ve lost most of my dignity tonight so this won’t really make much of a difference. Or, actually, you can do that. It’d hurt less than if you make it completely clear—”

“Jaskier, what are you talking about?” Geralt looks concerned, irritated. Almost as if he’s exhausted of being kept in the dark.

Which is completely understandable. Jaskier has been keeping his heart so close to his chest, afraid of it being torn to bits after a long soulmate-magic-prolonged life.

But he, too, is _exhausted._ So, so tired of throwing away the key to his box of secrets, keeping everything buried right under his skin. He’s so sick of it—

Wild lute-calloused hands twist in black fabric, Jaskier yanking his Witcher with all his strength to close the distance and—

their teeth bash, lips squashed painfully, and one of Jaskier’s hand drop to the ground to stabilise himself, only for it to land in dew-covered grass and—

his hand slips, and suddenly he’s face-planting into Geralt’s chest, his nose pressing against the wolf medallion. Geralt hurries to wrap his arms around him before he slips further and falls to the ground.

There’s a silent beat—an awful, embarrassing beat—and somehow, it’s enough time for Jaskier to regret every decision in his life that has led him to this moment.

But then, Geralt starts to laugh, bellowing curls of his voice, his chest rippling with every puff and because Jaskier is basically _on_ him, it's easy for the amusement to spread. Suddenly Jaskier is laughing too, his breaths matching Geralt’s.

“As far as kisses go,” Geralt huffs out, a smile on his face, “that wasn’t so bad.”

“ _Wasn’t so bad?”_ Jaskier strangles out. He knocks his head against Geralt’s chest, burying it into the Witcher’s doublet, face burning hot. “That was utter _horseshit!”_

He feels a hand run over his hair, almost comforting in this terrible moment in Jaskier’s life. “I admit it wasn’t the best first kiss I’ve had. But it’s certainly not the worst,” Geralt says, laughter now a soft deep rumble in the back of his throat.

Jaskier groans in despair, but looks up anyway, eyes snapping up to meet warm amber.

At least the man hasn’t pushed him off yet. Jaskier would consider that failure of a kiss to be a success.

Geralt’s brows furrow. “What does this have to do with Valdo?”

Jaskier knows there’s no way he can sink lower at this point. At least it makes it much easier to speak his next words, “He knew I was in love with you. He’d always made me feel like the fucking worst over it, so that’d I keep crawling back to him.”

Geralt’s face twists into anger, and Jaskier’s heart can’t help but drop to the ground, going still in Geralt’s arms.

“He’s a fucking arse.”

Jaskier’s brows jump. The Witcher is practically growling.

“Down, wolf.”

A tiny smile breaks through the anger, much like a beam of sun after a storm. Jaskier is utterly entranced.

The smile dims, becomes a little unsure, Jaskier's words registering. “’Was’?”

(I was and am still in love with you, you big, big idiot—)

Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s shoulder, grounding himself for what will happen next.

“Am,” Jaskier corrects, wilting and vulnerable and tired.

There’s a long pause. Cornflower on honey amber.

“Hm.”

Jaskier can’t help the chuckle falling from his lips, somehow never having felt so in love with the man before him until now—more so than anyone he’s met on the Continent.

And there’s no competition. Despite being almost his polar opposite in every way, this Witcher has his whole being, and Jaskier doesn’t even mind. Wholly and entirely, he loves this man.

Geralt stares off into the trees, almost unable to keep the eye contact. Then, a large hand gently cradles the back of his neck, fingers tangling into his brown locks.

Jaskier blinks blearily up at him, lips slowly gaping, barely suppressing a shiver. It somehow feels more intimate without Geralt looking at him; some part of him whispers that it’s because Geralt can’t quite handle the affection Jaskier knows is pouring out of his eyes, but that Geralt can’t fully ignore it either, can’t push it away

(—because he isn’t that person anymore, isn’t gloomy and sharp like he was on that dragon mountain—)

so he accepts it with a gentle touch and an appreciative silence.

As always, Geralt’s touch is hot against his skin, heat worsening when a thumb brushes the side of his jaw—so tender and smooth in its ministrations. Geralt keeps doing that, just gently rubbing Jaskier’s skin like he’s something precious.

Jaskier can lay on Geralt like this all day if this is what he would do.

The bard can’t even string a sentence in his head when another hand of Geralt’s comes up to smooth over the edges of Jaskier’s collar, fingernails just grazing the side of his neck. It’s done so fucking gingerly and gently Jaskier is split between moaning obscenely and purring like a cat.

But he’s frozen, still, splayed over Geralt, trying to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest.

His hand on Geralt’s shoulder gradually moves up to cradle the side of the Witcher’s scruffy face but even then, Geralt doesn’t look at him.

Jaskier is surprised to find he's actually grateful for the lack of eye contact. He’s unsure if he’ll be able to keep it together if Geralt so much as glances at him.

So, he lets his eyes trail down to his slightly swollen lips, strong jaw, the hollow of his throat, letting his eyes feast. In the corner of his vision, Geralt is doing the same thing—letting his gaze run over the bard in silence.

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice barely over a whisper, “for standing up for me back there. Even though you’d no idea what was going on, you still stepped in. I don’t know what I’d do without a friend like you.”

Geralt rumbles, still not meeting his eyes, “We’re soulmates. We’re supposed to look after each other.”

“Yeah… soulmates.” The bard stills in his movement, feeling like a ball nearly bursting at the seams.

“Jaskier—”

“Geralt—”

The bard purses his lips to hide his growing grin. “I talk enough for the two of us. You go ahead.”

Geralt’s fingers tighten their hold in Jaskier’s hair—who basically turns into a slew of lazy goo under his hands. “What we have… it’s important. To me. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Jasker hums affirmatively, damn near purring like a cat. “Me neither.”

“But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life regretting that I wasted time.”

“Okay.”

Geralt pauses, his words somehow sounding strained and stretched coming out of the Witcher’s mouth. “That means I will have to change some of the things between us, even if it means that… things will change for the worse.”

Jaskier blinks, brow raising. “ _Okay,_ I had you but then I lost you... I’m sorry, my head is spinning awfully from the sheer number of words coming out of your mouth.”

He can see a deadpanned look in the corner of his eyes. He laughs softly. “Okay, okay.”

“I don’t want us to be just friends.”

Jaskier pats Geralt’s chest affectionately, nodding. “Oh, okay.”

He keeps the smile on his face.

His hand goes still, Geralt’s words registering. “ _Oh._ ”

“Okay.”

His heart thunders in his chest. His voice trembles, “Is this a real, legitimate question you’re asking now?”

“You don’t have to answer at this moment, but I want to know—”

“Yes,” Jaskier blurts out, shaking. Golden eyes blink once, twice, then widen imperceptibly. 

“Yes? As in—”

“As in I get to kiss and have sex with you as much as I want? Yes.” His head whirls— _is this happening?_

Despite the tightening of Geralt’s face, Jaskier knows what is really going through his head when his large fingers dig further into his skin.

“That’s the first place your mind goes to?”

Jaskier cocks a brow, blunt. “Why won’t it be?”

“I thought you were a romantic, bard.”

“Kisses and sex can be romantic too, you know!”

Geralt only hums, the vibration of his voice sending tingles down Jaskier’s spine.

Their hands start to wander, fingers trailing over the edges of cuffs, collarbones, jawlines. They take their time to explore, hands just shying of brushing skin under clothes. Geralt’s fingers hover over his hipbone, as if there was a pull towards it. It’s where Jaskier’s soulmark is. Jaskier only then notices that Geralt's hands are as shaky as his.

It’s heady and adorable and hot and loving and Jaskier is just so _warm—_

Cornflower blue on burning hot molten gold.

Their next kiss goes better than their last.

Much _, much_ better.

Geralt’s lips are chapped but so, so pliable under Jaskier’s, moving along to the bard’s beat. The Witcher is letting him lead, leaning back so Jaskier slots perfectly in his lap, his impossibly gentle and strong hands tangled in brown hair.

Jaskier’s hands come up to clutch at Geralt’s sleeves as he pushes further and further, taking and taking to sate his want for this Witcher, for his soulmate.

And Gods—

does his soul sing; it croaks, it croons, it whistles, it belts, it's voice is sweet with yearning. He can feel the heavy thrum of his returned feelings pouring into the bond, hear reciprocating call of Geralt’s own soul—and it screams in Jaskier's tune.

Their souls intertwined sing better than any bard or minstrel Jaskier has ever heard, a song so profound and vast with meaning it would take over two decades to uncover it.

He pulls away, lips brushing against Geralt’s, “You know, can we count _this_ as our first kiss instead of the last one—”

“Get in here,” Geralt growls, pulling him in to continue their kiss. The hopeless romantic part of Jaskier leaps in joy, unable to contain itself. All of a sudden, countless ballads of soulmates start pouring into his head, unbidden and deafening, lyrics of ground-breaking love finally making complete sense.

A large hand starts to fumble for the front of his buttons, and Jaskier pulls away quickly. Geralt’s frustrated groan makes him grin. “Listen, as much as I’m absolutely loving this spit-swapping session—”

He steadily ignores Geralt’s look of ‘You did _not_ just say that’.

“—I feel like the whole kerfuffle with Valdo and the celebration and the very, _very_ eye-opening conversation we just had, don’t you think we should talk more about us—”

“Jaskier.”

He continues to fumble, his chest con-caving, “I mean, it’s quite abrupt, don’t you think? I feel like we need to take things a little more slow 'cause phew, even I need some time for introspection—”

“ _Jaskier.”_ Geralt fixes a concerned look on his face, eyes fixated on somewhere in Jaskier’s hair, and the bard releases a heavy breath.

“Do you want to do this?”

His lips twitch.

It stands out to Jaskier that not only does he not want to have sex tonight, but also that he doesn’t want to let go of his soulmate. Geralt and him have the bare bones of what would be considered an affectionate friendship. Even knowing each other for years, they never go further than hugs and practical back rubs.

And it’s reflected in how starved Jaskier is for that type of attention. As much as he dreams of being ravaged by Geralt in all the best ways, most of his body aches for sweet touches and sweeter kisses, deprived of it for years—even more in Geralt’s case. 

“No. Not really.”

_Not tonight._

“That’s okay,” Geralt quietly says. His heart lurches painfully.

“I’m sorry—”

“Hey,” Geralt rushes in to press a kiss on Jaskier’s forehead, voice gruff, “don’t say sorry for things like this.”

He's startled to see a brief flash of relief on Geralt's face, an expression mirroring his. Ah. So, he's not alone in the sentiment, then.

Face full of conviction, Geralt pulls his face closer, gentle breaths fanning across Jaskier’s lips to establish his point.

“We have all the time on our hands. I can wait another day.”

Jaskier’s smile is shaky but so full of hope and love and tenderness that it seems Geralt can’t even resist because the next thing he knows—

Geralt is yanking him full onto his lap, pressing him flushed against that wonderfully muscled chest and Jaskier sighs contentedly, staring into loving pools of melted amber sap, looking like the sweetest honey Jaskier has ever had the pleasure of tasting.

Geralt takes his time to devour him, pulling him apart at the seams with the brutality of a wolf but the affection of a beloved dog. Jaskier can only hold on for dear life as Geralt lets out what seems to be every drop of emotion he’s saved up for his bard.

The man eventually gets tired of being out in the open in nature because soon, Jaskier is bouncing in his arms when Geralt gets to his feet, heading back to the castle. Jaskier feels so full of indescribable sensations, old ones he’s learned to bury over the years and new ones like the breath-taking feel of Geralt’s steely hold under his knees—carrying Jaskier against him without a sweat.

And other new ones like the feel of his swollen heart—swelling from how cherished he’s feeling.

“GeraltGeraltGeraltGeralt _Geralt—”_ he babbles against his soulmate’s lips, and the man only growls and hugs him tighter.

Soon enough, Geralt is kicking their door closed and gently laying the bard on the silky duvets, still lip-locked.

Geralt is tender and so open and when he pulls away, Jaskier can see the sweet vulnerability in those golden eyes and he feels like he’s been bestowed the greatest gift of all—Geralt’s complete trust, letting his soulmate see the Witcher like this.

Jaskier pulls him in for another kiss and is surprised to taste wet saltiness. One of Geralt’s thumbs comes up to brush away his tears and Jaskier can only sigh softer.

“Is it okay if we just… cuddle?”

Geralt’s eyes spark with surprise.

Jaskier backtracks, “Nevermind. It's fine. We don't have to.”

He sees the hesitant hope in Geralt's eyes, something kindling within the Witcher's head. Something soft and forgotten.

He's heard of the times women in brothels would stink of fear, would flinch and try to hide their micro-expressions of disgust. It pulls something in Jaskier, heavy and blue, and he wants to melt further into Geralt, if only to take away the glint of reluctance. But then—

“Yes. We can.”

Jaskier grins, wide and abashed. The smile growing on Geralt’s face is almost a mirror image, and Geralt dips his head to place his lips over Jaskier’s face, chaste and slow, over his nose, chin, cheeks, eyelids—every inch that Geralt loves with every bit of his being.

They slowly strip each other of their clothing, slow and familiar—holding none of the sexually charged air Jaskier expected (and all the more grateful for it).

Jaskier’s hands are greedy as they dance delicately over Geralt’s muscles and planes of skin, breathing easy after so, _so long._ The Witcher endures it with nothing but a soft-edged smile, utterly endeared by his bard.

 _I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood._ It’s written just under his left pec, cursive words wrapping around his side. Jaskier recognises his own handwriting.

Geralt is now able to pull down the waist band of his breeches, his thumb running over _I’m here to drink alone._

This is the first time they have ever touched each other’s soulmark.

Jaskier can see why so many bards would write about this moment.

It's like time pulls and stretches itself, becoming hazy the moment Jaskier loses himself in the sensations of everything Geralt. It reminds Jaskier of how blurry everything gets after one too many goblets of wine, the difference is that only Geralt stays in perfect focus.

The night drags on longer until the candlelight on the drawer wafts away into nothing but smoke and darkness. Jaskier is resting his head upon strong shoulders, still sitting on the Witcher’s lap. With arms entangled around each other, neither is sure where one begins and the other ends.

“You should get some sleep. It’s been a long night,” Geralt whispers, but it comes out more like soft rumbles of thunder in a rainstorm. Jaskier first feels the build-up of a rebuttal in his throat, but then a yawn leaves his lips, and he sleepily nods. 

Geralt moves them around until he lays on his side, bare front pressed against Jaskier’s back, arm curled like a rod over his stomach. He’s nosing the side of Jaskier’s neck, breathing and drinking in the scent of him like a depraved man. Jaskier can melt against those hard muscles yet still feel like he’s resting upon clouds.

The room has become pitch black and their breathing has evened out when Jaskier decides to take another leap of the evening—but instead of feeling fearful, he now feels steady and protected by Geralt’s touch, knowing the man would never let him fall.

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“I love you.”

“Hmm.”

The hand on his hip twitches, and Jaskier grins at the dark. "You don't have to say it back."

Geralt stays silent, in the way he does when he's thinking deeply, and Jaskier's grin only widens. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

Geralt's even breaths are a steady loud drum, the pattering of rain outside a warm cottage, the heat in his stomach after a hot toddy, the tempo of his ballads. He is a constant presence many take for granted, some think annoying, but others find exceptionally difficult to live without.

The bard was already drifting off to sleep, warm content soothing every part of him, when a pair of lips presses against his shoulder and hears Geralt murmur in the softest voice he's ever heard him speak in.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end, folks! There isn't any smut in this entire fic, only flufff and hurt/comfort.  
> The next part is a short epilogue


	4. a journey's end is a story's new beginning

Duchess Emylya is kind enough to send them off with more provisions than they have had in literal years, even on top of Geralt’s and Jaskier’s payment for the contract and performance respectively. Jaskier is able to just refrain from kissing the woman, but he does not even need to feel that guilty either because even Geralt has the twinkle of unspoken gratitude in his eye.

“Please, take one of my steeds as an apology for last night.”

Geralt has to physically restrain Jaskier from tackling the woman into a hug.

The bard is practically beaming, bouncing on his heels as one of the duchy’s knights butt into the conversation, leading an absolutely gorgeous mare by her reins.

“What its name?”

“Her name is Pegasus.”

What with Geralt rolling his eyes, the man is probably thinking Jaskier already loves the horse more than he loves the Witcher. Which isn’t such a far-fetched theory when Jaskier is quick to shower the happily whinnying horse with compliments, petting her neck with earnest affection.

Jaskier turns over his shoulder to meet Geralt’s amused eyes. “Guess I don’t have to keep catching up to Roach anymore. We can even race.”

At that, Geralt cocks a brow, “You think your new, royal horse can outrace Roach?”

“Now, now, don’t speak ill of Pegasus. She’s won many races against many of the knights’ steeds,” the duchess says.

Geralt only lightly scoffs, “But she’s never gone against a Witcher’s horse.”

The duchess laughs and pats his shoulder. Geralt has half of a mind to get offended by how patronising it was, but the duchess is already talking to the knight before he can say a word.

“I guess we’ll have to see if she has the stamina to catch up,” Jaskier says lowly. Geralt whirls around. The sharp glint in Jaskier’s half-lidded eyes sparks an inappropriate fire in the Witcher’s gut, and a sly smirk makes its way onto Geralt’s face.

“ _Careful._ With Witchers, you never know what you’re getting into,” Geralt says in an equally low tone, leaning a little closer to Jaskier.

The bard only widens his flirty smirk, dipping his head to peek up at his soulmate, a look that Geralt find utterly intoxicating. “Witcher, I knew what I was getting into the moment I saw you in Posada.”

The warmth in Geralt’s gut only gets headier when the bard’s words brings forth a vivid memory from years ago. It brings back the strong scent of Jaskier’s arousal; the scent was so prevalent the moment the bard decided to bother him in his corner—the smell of clean linen bedsheets, the warmth of cedar, the hardness of leather straps and whips, and the sweetness of a juicy strawberry.

Geralt can smell it on Jaskier right now.

“Well—”

They lurch away from each other—sending Jaskier to bump into his new horse, two pairs of wide eyes on the interrupting duchess. The woman barely tries to hide her grin when she catches sight of Jaskier’s flushed face and Geralt’s insistence to not make eye contact.

“Well, I would like to announce that the bard from last night, Valdo Marx—” she ignores the soft growls emanating from the silver-haired man.

“Is now barred from performing in any courts for a month. Oxenfurt University took offense that a bard of theirs would disrespect a bard of your merit.”

Jaskier’s brows jump.

“The man has also been charged with a tremendous fine for foul play against soulmates.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen, his hand gripping on Geralt’s forearm.

“Did you hear that? _Valdo Marx is banned!_ Woo! What a day!”

Geralt purses his lips to smother his grin but to no avail.

"Still a great shame he didn't drop dead from a stroke, in my opinion," Geralt's sensitive ears pick up on Jaskier's quiet haughty tone, and bites the inside of his cheek, eyes twinkling.

The Witcher shoots the duchess a good, long grateful look, but she only waves a hand, smiling brightly at the blatant show of closeness.

“Do take care of yourselves, and have a safe trip,” she says loftily, and this time, Geralt isn’t fast enough to stop Jaskier from wrapping her into a hug.

Geralt can only blink, glancing over to the uncertain-looking knight. “I’m not quite sure that’s allowed.”

-

“Do you think they would be surprised?” Jaskier asks, stopping the strumming on his lute.

Pegasus clops right next to Roach, following the Witcher’s horse beat by beat. Jaskier is ecstatic over his new horse, who has been nothing but keen and enthusiastic over getting the chance to stretch her legs. Roach hasn’t taken too kindly to her yet but Jaskier knows it’s only a matter of time. Even Geralt gave the horse his own nickname for her, flashing a small grin when she neighed and nudged against him, responding wonderfully at his ‘Peggy’.

Her reaction awfully reminded Jaskier of himself whenever Geralt would call him ‘Jas’.

“Who? Ciri and Yen?” Jaskier nods. Geralt only snorts. “No. Not at all.”

Geralt shrugs his shoulders.

“In fact, I’m pretty sure they talk about it constantly.” Jaskier’s brows spring to his hairline.

“Wait, what? How do you know?” He idly picks at a string, the burst of soft sound getting lost in the wind.

“Seen them whisper in secret conversations before. And Ciri can’t make a poker face if she tried.”

“How sure are you that we’re going to get laughed at once we get back?” Jaskier sighs, resigning to his fate.

“It’s practically a guarantee.”

Geralt was right. They did, in fact, laugh at both of them as if he and his Witcher were the blindest whoresons they have ever met, having not expected them to take so godsdamn long.

But Jaskier can’t even find the smallest part of him to care, because he meets Geralt’s eyes over the top of Ciri’s head—eyes warm and open and sweet like the birth of the sun in the spring—and he realises a few things.

For one, that he has to thank Valdo for indirectly bringing him closer to Geralt than he’s ever been before, and two, that the Witcher looks at him the exact same way as he would have five years ago.

He also realises

(—with an earnest heart and the haze of familiarity he only sees in old married couples—)

that he may have fallen in love with Geralt because destiny decided to twist their fates together, but he also found more than just his soulmate.

He found his home, his family, because Geralt is, first and foremost, his best friend.

And he has to silently admit that is worth more than what a hundred soulmate ballads could ever come up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end, folks!   
> I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing these two in depth for the first time. Especially playing with a mixed dynamic of the games and the show.  
> Nothing is set in stone yet, but I have half-baked plans to turn this into a mini-series, to show how this relationship of theirs took form over the years and the domestic bliss after this. Not sure if it should told non-linearly or not yet, but we shall see.  
> Do give me any feedback, a girl loves all types of comments, be it a long message or even just an emoji—don't be shy, I don't bite <3
> 
> Find me on [tumblr with the same name!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ivegotbreadinmypants)


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